Bottomless
by Nic-n'-Nyx
Summary: One-shot on Nico's thoughts at the end of MoA/beginning of HoH. Dark memories and even present, existing thoughts still haunt him from his recent journey, yet here he is to set out on another. He has promised to lead the remaining five prophesied demigods into Greece - and as much as it pains him to break his promise to Percy, he doubts his sanity will last long enough.


**DISCLAIMER: Rick Riordan owns PJatO and HoO, as well as all characters listed in this story. **

**Nyx: Okay, so this is a little thing I've had on my mind since finishing MoA. Obviously, Nico can be expected in HoH to struggle with recent events. This is just a little snippet on that. Been thinking of it for a long while and at last wrote it down. It does get a bit descriptive, so be warned, but it's within the T rating. Enjoy!**

oOo

There are many things that darkness is made of.

Instability is one. Darkness, fear, dread, horror, revulsion, utter terror, the defeated feeling of not just surrender but complete and entire collapse, the loss of your will, the death of your soul inside you – it can't just throw out anything, though it almost can. But not quite. No, it goes in a certain order, a certain play, crafted for its specific target. It reads the target, then must find a way to bend itself around said victim, twisting and working and bending and tricking and totally changeable. So little substance there really is, to bend around like that, to _have _to bend. Only then can it bend you, and even when it does, that power to bend you is naught but an illusion.

Oh, but does this knowledge save you? Once you know how it works, is it more familiar? Does it help? Can you last just a spiteful moment longer?

No.

It just clears your vision and deprives you of the blessing of blindness. Oh, sweet bliss, to be ignorant. I of all should know that. Darkness shows you just what it needs, once more bending, twisting, fitting into tiny cracks and then hardening, building, until you burst.

Allowing you to watch is a big part of that. How I wish I was blind.

It is also persistent. Like a true predator. It lingers, it waits, it creeps, it stalks, long after you are out of immediate danger. Or, so you think you are. It doesn't linger like light does before your eyes, colorful, pulsing bulbs, little whispers of promise, telling you they're there. Light is like a friend when it follows; plain, out in the open, hiding nothing.

Darkness trails behind and creeps through the cracks, like ants in a hill or a snake in a hole, for it has dark motives to hide. It stays in your mind. It's a parasite you can't shake. It feeds you images and sensations and cold, horrible thoughts you can't get away from, no matter how hard you try. At first it's confusing, but trivial, and you dismiss it. But then it strengthens and before you know it you're curled in the fetal position on your bathroom floor, muttering to yourself in and to the darkness, cursing anything that crosses your mind for not giving you a warning of said 'insignificant' thoughts' true nature.

Oh, and you laugh! You really laugh, because it's just so funny. Darkness gave you a warning. It did. It set off alarms. It just wasn't clear. You just didn't listen.

So in the end, you did it to yourself.

While you laugh, darkness laughs at you. You are, by this point, quite laughable. A hollow shell. What's left of you, in the end? Your sick love for irony? Perhaps, though it won't save you now. Your will to fight? To be spiteful? No. Those have fallen. They've been crushed and their corpses strewn across the floor, nothing but heavy, sick crumbs and splatters of blood. Yellowed bone bursting through severed skin. Things once so loved, now gone, turned into horrible monuments to the darkness you should've run from when you had the chance. If only you had!

All part of the darkness' plan, to let you see it. To let you realize. It has the last laugh as it kills you, utterly erases your consciousness, the only thing you have left. And the one who laughs last, my friend, is the one who laughs best.

How do I know so much?

Some I have seen in bleak memories, little traces, little horrors, as clear and forbidding to me as a severed corpse is to a human. These little memories tagged on to corners and surfaces and the air. I have seen the minds of those who fall; it is not pretty.

Oh, another warning I had, but by that point I'd known it was too late.

And now I carefully pick my way down that steep slope, following the tracks of such minds. Sometimes I fight gravity and try. I try so hard. But the path is familiar; darkness has wrapped itself around me, and though I know it's an illusion, it's so hard to fight. So I continue to slide down. I can feel myself falling lower and lower. I leap from place to place, scattering loose stones and kicking up dust, trying to find a solid foothold. But there are none; they all fall away, leaving me to land on another slab of false hopes.

The rocks echo like the minds of the tortured dead as they fall. False hope is even worse than no hope at all; I listen, praying, praying that I'm wrong and that I can escape the darkness that follows me and tries to reel me in.

But I am not wrong. There is no bottom to this pit. I have climbed out of the physical thing, been dragged out and locked away, but realize, the darkness is not physical. The more powerful side its what's in the mind.

And it's what's in the mind that follows.

So here I am, forever sliding down this cliff, hearing the rocks fall beneath me and knowing they won't ever hit bottom. I slide. At times I don't remember why I fight. Oh, and somewhere, my conscious laughs at me when I feel like that.

For this is the stage of doubt and dread. Powerful enemies, they are, powerful illusions spread by darkness. But they are not the worst, especially when alone.

The direct pain – for I'm already suffering so much – has yet to start.

I know it's coming. As I slide, I wait, glancing from side to side, scared out of my mind, for I already feel like I'm ready to break. To collapse and lie there. I don't know why I don't; instead I am forced to just keep waiting. Waiting for what's next.

It comes as I remember it from the literal great pit itself; first the temperature. I don't know if it's hot or cold. It's just too far in a certain direction, too painful, to really matter. Oh, nothing matters anymore. They happen, they occur, outside and in my own mind, but it does not matter. Why should my fate alone or the goings on here at this single point in time be of significance to the whole world?

Then come the demons. The ones the darkness places before me, weaving around, bending to me so that I bend to it. There are no words for such things; they are what they are. Their names do not matter. They are concepts, really; there is pain and doubt and whatever demon that gnaws on your will until it finishes said meal, and moves on to the next.

Memories of the literal demons begin to leak in. I see these dark thoughts, these little messengers, these hints of following darkness, as physical beings of terror; these, too, I have no name for.

I have no names with which to warn you. I'm sorry. Of all I've been through, I should be able to tell you more…

…But I can't. One, there are no names. Two, my thoughts have vanished. Or have they? I cannot tell. There are only demons, the slope of false hopes, and the pain it all causes. I see a monster of pulsing flesh and beady eyes and a writhing body, forever in the agony we are both currently feeling. It screeches and hisses, not quite loud enough to render me deaf (for darkness knows how to torture its victims) but plenty able to make me wish I had a way to end myself. The sound alone is of clattering bones and fired guns and tormented screams – do I hear a familiar voice among them?! – and the laments of the dead, the things they could never let go of, their last memories grinding on my eardrums and my mind like raw stones to bare, mushy flesh. So weak, flesh is, when you think about it….

The smells are worse. The next thing is _always _worse here. Flesh rot can't hold a candle to this. It's the very stench of defeat itself, of the abandonment of one's own body and mind and soul. I had no idea such an act created a smell. Both the scent and its cause horrify me.

I am no longer breathing, I'm sure, yet I can still smell it. Yet I do not die.

Of course; darkness works like that.

What I feel is horrible. Demon claws, on my skin, tearing open large red gashes bigger than myself. I feel like I'm awake for my autopsy. There are other demons, too, crawling beneath the flesh like cold worms with teeth and claws and burning poison in their wake. They bite on nerves and muscles, making it impossible to control myself. They are in my mind, too, in my brain – or is it all in my mind? I am no longer sure – cold trickles of ice water beneath my skull, little needles of frozen air, in places such water and air should not be.

I don't know what the tastes come from. I haven't licked anything. Yet I can taste things so much worse than death. Why can I sense so much, when by all rights, I should be dead? But still I taste the horrors, dried blood and shriveled spirits and aged, expired nectar. It makes me choke, but as I tumble, I keep tumbling, and the lack of air does nothing to help me.

I am wishing for death, for Thanatos is so much kinder. Thanatos is not all of this. Death is not something to dread so much. But I ran from the warnings and the option of death when I'd had the chance; this is what I picked, and I have no right, no way, and soon won't have a will, to go back.

And I still see the demons. I can still pick out the strategies darkness uses against me. I see how easy it is for myself to fall so utterly before illusions and tricks, to be bent around and in turn bent, how small a wind blew me into this pit.

Any silver lining is long gone. How I long for the smallest drop of silver! It would taste like starlight, gleam like the sun, or a good memory to be cherished forever; it would shine of things I've lost and remember.

Yet silver does not come, not a silver lining or a memory. I have forgotten my own name now. As I fall, I begin to wonder what the point of all this was.

Oh, there was no point. Darkness just exists and does what it does. There is no point; it does not matter.

I do not matter.

It's hard to stop thinking things through when darkness wants you to see all there is to see, but I give up trying; my last chance of control on that cliff vanishes; I fall.

What else is there to do for something so insignificant, so unloved, so forgotten, lost in such a world? I am not happy with this fate, and though in agony, I am not disturbed by it; it's this indifference that scares me most, that I know I should fight.

But finding the will to fight indifference itself is hard. I don't fight.

I do not matter; it does not matter; there is no reason; no way;

The end.

No, not really. It goes around and around in a great cycle. The pit is, after all, bottomless. I will never stop falling. But as far and as long as my words can go;

The end.

oOo

I do not know when, but somewhere, somehow, there is a break in the monotony. The careless monotony that tosses me, nothing more than a dead corpse, as it pleases.

What warns me first? I don't know. I just get the sense that something had changed, the nagging in the back of my mind that something wants – no, screams for – attention. It confuses me, but holds no interest; this is not the pattern of pain and utter blackness I am familiar with now. If anything, I am biased and hateful towards change.

Then the monotony shatters.

It comes with a yell; the darkness cracks and falls away at its sheer volume. Then comes sight; a streak of shining bright silver, blinding, painful in a new way, shoots across the world and banishes the last shards of night. The darkness scatters and flees and is tossed into the wind brought about by a gentle touch; before I know it, it is out of my sight.

I panic. The unknown will kill me. Oh, the dark was unknown, until I took such interest. I would never trust the unknown again.

At first I don't recognize the instinct or resulting movement; it _is _movement, something shifting, something caught, something traveling through air. The silver still has me blinded, but I can hear the enemy in front of me; they are there, alright. They have come to hurt me. What else would they be here for, this strange new demon that broke all the rules?

I feel the darkness again, in the back of my mind, where it lurks and lingers. Cold fingers on my brain. My hands shake with not fear but the desire to kill, to end this strange thing, the silver, the shattering noise-

"Nico?! Are you alright?!"

And suddenly, everything clears.

I blink in shock. My sword is in my hands – I have a dim memory of drawing it. An old, familiar battle stance dominates my body, and I can feel hot adrenaline racing through my blood. Wind tugs at my long, uncut hair, pulling it in front of my eyes and carrying the soft scent of seawater. It's colder than my own breath, which comes in gasps through my numb mouth. The floor beneath my feet creaks and groans softly, moving a little, even vibrating. I glance down in shock and wonder; it is wood, wooden planks. To my right is railing, overlooking the vast blue sky dotted with cotton balls floating above the deep blue-grey color of the Mediterranean Sea below. To my left is the ship, the _Argo II. _The mast stands tall and proud, sails snapping in the breeze. Leo is running around, dark curls bouncing, as he waves his controllers to steer the great machine.

At last my gaze lands to the space before me. I recognize Hazel instantly; frizzy dark brown curls, light coffee skin smooth as silk, deep eyes wide and shocked and panicked. She looks nothing like me, and we haven't known each other long, but I know my half-sister so well the connection snaps in my mind faster than anything else has in a long while. Her story flashes before my eyes briefly; her mother, the island, her sacrifice. My stupid whim of an idea, her being here and breathing once more. I remember her personality. It is warm and caring and… and…

…Gleaming silver.

Her eyes are wide in fear. Oh, crap. Something must be wrong. I glance around, worried as to what it is, before I see my sword once more in my hands. I have drawn it on her in a moment of panic.

I glance at her, now weary. "…Hazel?"

"It's just me," she says, taking a daring step closer. I wonder if it's her or a demon in disguise, but my sword lowers, for I can feel the silver shining within her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, but you looked troubled."

I slide my sword back into its sheath, where it hums happily. I know how close I came to killing her. "D-don't do that. While I'm thinking."

She steps up to the railing beside me. Unable to bear the look of concern on her face, I turn to the sky and the sea. She follows, respecting my newfound fear of eye contact. "What were you thinking about?"

I try to explain, but I have no words. That, and the darkness stops me. I will never warn my sister. It will have her if it wishes. Cold water seeps into the cracks in my mind that have been ripped open. I feel its pressure building and grip the railing tightly to steady myself.

"Uh-huh," she says knowingly. But it's so sad. That tone feels like a thorn in my heart, a demon all its own. I can't stand to hear her like this. "I know what was on your mind. I couldn't just leave you here to panic."

"I was not panicking," I lie. The cold water, the darkness, the demons, press angrily on my mind again, forcing cracks deeper. I'm unable to stop shuddering.

"Nico…" she sighs, and I flinch. The demons take pleasure in the pain and press on.

Oh, they are still there. I have been drawn from my subconscious for now, but I know. There is no escape. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I am still so hopelessly tumbling down that hill and into that endless pit. My mind and soul. For darkness follows in little cracks like that. It carves its crevices and will never let go of an enemy.

It is still wrapped around me. I have seen enough in my life to know better than to hope that one day I'll be free of it.

"You want something to eat?" she asks, and pulls a package of gummy snacks from her pocket. She has been doing this lately, bringing me food; the reason why remains slippery to my mental grasp, yet it happens. The silver package gleams daringly in the sunlight. She grips the top and wrenches the bag open. It rips.

I can hear the sharp accent of a spine near the end, and the whole thing is overlain with the thick, wet sound of something much thicker than plastic. It's an image a demon has fed me, pressing into my mind. I hear the tear of a human body and shudder, looking away from the shredded silver corpse.

She taps my arm lightly, offering a red treat shaped like a fish. Her touch is warm and soothing, shining brightly, a beacon of light. I take the cherry-flavored treat and begin to chew. The taste is relieving, something familiar, something normal, from an easier time. Then it becomes tainted with the scent and taste of blood, and I have to resist the urge to hurl over the edge of the ship.

As the demons continue to wrench open my mind like a squirrel cracks a nut (none too quickly, now) and we finish the package of snacks, little happens. The flying ship turns. Leo says something to Jason. Frank walks past. His footsteps sound like the beat of a war drum. The war drums that promised true carnage and hell-on-earth.

"Better?" Hazel asks. I stiffen, for her voice sounds brittle and dry, like withered stalks of grass waving in the wind, beckoning a victim closer into the field that killed them. I am too scared to look at her. I can feel the demons' freezing grip on my mind and know I'll see something awful.

It would start simple, I knew; a red slit across her throat, then a massive slice across her shoulder deep enough to show gleaming white bone. The bone would wither to a cracked and yellowed state and the flesh would fall from her face until rotten muscle and tissue clung to a black skull. Her voice would move from brittle to cracking and clacking, teeth gnashing against one another, mindless, cold, bony, painful hands groping for my arm. Blood splatters like blooming flowers on the polished wooden floor, such a bright red they'll forever stain. I can imagine gaping holes in her side, things visible and spilling out like torn pieces of yarn. Surely if I turn to look at Leo, he will look similar. Such images the demons show me. Or are they images I draw out of them? I am not sure.

This is what hurts the most. When the most inner shells of me are cracked, and the demons and servants of darkness can find the things I hold the closest. The dam is broken and the icy water begins to flood things I have clung to all this time, too scared to let go. It's the final straw, the worst wound, the most painful thing, and the last blow that destroys my essence. For without those things, I know I am nothing.

"Nico," Hazel says, more insistent.

Her voice is clearer this time. It rings like a bell, resonating pure silver. Pure light. I am caught by wonder for a moment; light has such a stunning taste, and a very blinding look.

What's more, I find that it is solid. Unlike the darkness, that must weave around in order to work, that uses illusions of power and dirty tricks like fear, light is true. It's solid as a rock beneath my feet. It does not hide; it stays in sight as it lingers, like a close ally or friend. It stands at my side and does not weave; does not trick; does not bend. I don't feel it creeping up on my mind like I can feel the darkness.

"I'm alright," I say, and the light pulses happily. The darkness recedes from the cracks, just a little.

She sighs and brushes up against me, almost leans, offering her support. The touch is like fireworks. More light, solid light.

Light does not fall and tumble like false hopes beneath my feet. I stand on it, reach for the next bit, and climb. To my surprise, it works.

I can climb out on light!

"You know," she says as she takes my hand, "I think we might be able to pull this off. Stopping the Greeks and Romans from killing one another. The statue is the key to that, right?"

I shrug, because I don't know; I've been locked in an air-tight vase for eight days. Light radiates happily from her touch and her voice, happy silver.

Then something growls. My stomach turns over, and a cold, concentrated knot in the back of my mind makes itself known.

_I am still here,_ the darkness says. _I will not be forgotten. You are still mine._

A new image breaks through my fragile mind; I am looking down, back into that dark, endless pit. The real, literal one. Tartarus. That name makes ice shoot through every cell in my body. As I stare down, I'm _reaching _– the only thing on my mind is the echo of the demons and the dead, all the horrors, a scramble of memories out of order, and the horrible, insistent, doomed need; _DON'T LET THEM FALL!_

For I know what awaits.

I reach down for Percy, begging. But I know the look he gives me; I have seen it before. It is calm and accepting, though hiding fear and dread. He tells me to promise. He tells me to continue the quest, to lead on. To _move _on.

And I feel horrible, for how can I deny him his dying wish? How could I deny anyone such a thing?

"I will." The promise slips from my lips too soon, for I know once he has it, he will let go of that ledge fifteen feet down. There is no way to stop it. I know it will happen.

And it does.

He lets go. Percy and Annabeth vanish from my sight, swallowed by that vast, dark pit. I know the demons have them now, digging in their claws, ripping open flesh and mind and soul, invading everything they can find.

Though it is a fate much worse than death, it is very familiar to me, watching a friend 'die'. Fade away forever. Know that they are gone, lost in places I can't invade and bring them back from. A single tear slides down my face and follows them into the hole.

_You'd think,_ I had thought, _that I'd be used to this by now._

Breaking the news to the others was hard, though I hadn't had to say a word.

It's the image of them falling that haunts me now, that tells me the darkness is still there. It will follow me persistently, and despite the strength and solidity of the light, I doubt I will ever be rid of it.

But I know, especially after Bianca, that you can't just wait for fate to do as it wishes. While I have separated my conscious from what was happening in my mind for the time being, my head is clear, and I know it is stupid to let the smallest bits of hope and happiness and silver slip by. Besides, even if I am to die soon and end all of this, Bianca will no longer be there to welcome me (should I make Elysium in the first place.) Oh, death is still so sweet, but I know now that I really will never see her again.

Even death is shaking beneath my feet. Since Bianca died, it has been the one solid thing. I can trust death, trust Thanatos, to always work the same way.

Yet it didn't come to save me when I fell. It doesn't promise me an eternity with Bianca.

To have it disappear from beneath me is horrible.

But until death does come and until the darkness makes its next move, Hazel is here, and she offers solid light. I will run up the pit's walls fast and for as long as I can; I will hold the darkness at bay until I can no longer stand its small torments and give way once more.

Walking this thin line between light and darkness is like balancing on a razor's edge. I would lean one way, then the next, all while struggling to continue my steps forward. To continue my life, to unite the Greeks and Romans, to take them to Greece and stop Gaea. One step at a time, that is the best I can manage. Leaning back and forth is so dangerous, but it is the only way I can figure out right now. I have no wish to be here, to be racked by visions and horrors of Tartarus while straining to find light and hope. I've always worked with the afterlife, but I've had no wish to be caught between Heaven and Hell as I am.

Yet here we are. I walk the razor's edge, forever careful when I begin to lean. For no matter which side I may fall off of, I will fall _down_, and I have no wish to take that endless drop again.

oOo

**Nyx: So yeah a lot of flashbacks interwoven with current events, thoughts, and sensations. Lots of thick imagery. Poetic, even? (Technically it would have to have few words then, which this does not.) When Nico admitted to being dragged through Tartarus in MoA, I just about started crying. Yeah, I was that upset over that happening to him. It wasn't fair and I was scared for his well-being…**

**Aha… Yes, I am prone to fangirlness…**

**Ahem. Anyway, this is what I figure he's thinking at the end of MoA/beginning of HoH. Hoping his POV will be in there. The cover for HoH comes out May 31****st****, by the way, if you're interested. Will be available on Riordan's site.**

**Anyway, I'd love it if you'd tell me what you think! This was really in-depth, which can make it confusing, so it's a delicate balance to try and work, but I liked this piece. Tell me what you think! Constructive criticism, even flames, are encouraged. I doubt you will harm my ego, but I can guarantee it'll help my writing. Please review!**

**Until Rejects comes out, sianara! And yay for warmer weather (those of you who are getting it)!**

***And yes, I did the cover. It was a sketch of him on the back of red paper I found. I apologize for the ache it puts on the eye* **


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